


Feeding Mrs. Mott

by pjordha



Category: The Hand That Rocks the Cradle (1992)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Lactation, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 09:08:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14951754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pjordha/pseuds/pjordha
Summary: Peyton helps Claire be a better mother.Mentions of past, canon-compliant abuse.





	Feeding Mrs. Mott

Feeding Mrs. Mott

By Pjordha

 

 

Monday you're feeding Joey when little Emma walks in, wondering why your breast is in her baby brother's mouth the way her mommy's always is.  You remind her about secrets, give her a piece of forbidden bubble gum and a ton of sugary snacks, and send her to her room to play.  She's out in minutes, the episode forgotten.

          Tuesday that simpleton catches you feeding Joey when he's snooping through the window.  By Thursday you've taken care of him.  Doesn't take too much to convince Claire—a suggestion, her daughter's underwear hidden in his things.  You'd hoped they would call the police, but having Solomon sent away is good enough.  Even if another neighbor hires the dullard, Michael will never let him near the house again…would never risk the children…his family…your family.

          Michael has grown so tired of Claire, with her asthma and neediness and constantly dirty fingernails.  You thought it would take months of bumbling around in the kitchen late at night in your thin nightgown to get his attention, but he was undressing you with his eyes from day one.  You always could turn men's eyes.  Michael's or Victor's, it made no difference.

          Victor.  You truly loved him, but he was weak.  If he couldn't be bothered to stay alive and fight for your family, why should you feel obligated to stay faithful to him?  He never could get you off anyway.  Not like Michael can.  _Will_ , when you've finally done away with his wife.

          Claire.  So trusting.  So stupid.  Never bothered to call in your fake references when they hired you.  Always going off on dates with Michael and that slut Marlene, leaving you with hours to poison Emma's mind against her.  Marlene doesn't like you…best keep your eye on her.

          You're helping Claire move some things into the attic when it happens—you find yourself comforting her, patting her shoulder, embracing her.  Poor, gullible Claire on the verge of tears, confessing how guilty she feels for not "protecting" Emma.  You make a great show of putting her at ease, and when she leans into your touch, you actually feel a tug of something, something reminding you of schoolgirls brushing each other's hair and whispering secrets and holding hands.  She smiles at you, pats your hand, and it's all you can do to not slap her face right there.

          You're still thinking about it, that coy smile of hers, probably much like the one she used to seduce your husband, got him to feel her up while she was on his table, as you help make lunch.  You think about slipping some raw onion in the salad to send her to the ER for a few hours, but she comes up behind you too quick before you can make the exchange.  She touches your elbow where your sleeve is rolled up, and you can't help shivering.  It's one of your spots, and it's been so long since anyone's touched you there.

          She touches another of your spots another day, when she slips one of her hand-me-down necklaces around your neck to "see how it'll look on you."  You'd been marveling it once, and she wanted you to have something pretty, in case you ever go out.  Like you have time to go out, what with wiping her children's mouths and asses and being a pin cushion for her pathetic feelings and being both maid and Madonna for her husband.  Bitch.  Still, the necklace does look good on you, and when she absentmindedly strokes your collarbone when she places it on you, you can't help feel a rush of something.

          The third place she touches you takes you both by surprise.  As usual, you wake up practically in the middle of the night and sneak upstairs to feed the baby.  Maybe you've been tired, maybe the stress of Claire's constant need for attention is getting to you, whatever; you aren't on your game, and you just have time to close your robe up before Claire walks in on you.

          "I hope I didn't wake you!" you offer with a fake toothpaste smile through gritted teeth.  "I thought I heard him fussing, so I came up before he could wake you."

          "That was nice of you," Claire whispers as she lumbers around gracelessly, most likely waking everyone else.  She'll never be as lithe as you; she hasn't had to be.  "He looks ok now."  She looks down at Joey in your arms, and her brow furrows.  Yes, she's noticed how he grabs at your breast possessively.  "Oh.  I guess he's, um, confused.  Bound to happen, huh?"

          "Yes.  Of course."  You hand him to her, and your robe falls open, and her hand brushes against your naked breast, the one you'd just been feeding to her baby, in the exchange.  She blushes and takes him to her feeding chair.  You take your time putting yourself away; it does feel nice to be ogled, even if it is by Claire fucking Bartel.

          "Sorry," she mutters, but she's smiling that fake smile of hers, even in the dark you can see it.  She looks down at Joey, making silly faces at him, and then undoes her robe.  Normally you'd give them some privacy, but you can't wait to see this.  You sit down across from them and watch as Claire exposes her breast and offers it to the boy.  "Hungry, Joey?"  You cough to cover the smirk that wants to break through.  She frowns, and her face reddens a little.  "Come one, honey.  Why aren't you feeding?"

          "Is everything ok, Claire?" you ask with mock concern.  "Are you having problems…with your milk?"

          "No, not at all."  She looks down at Joey, who surely must be wondering what this once familiar strange woman is doing trying to shove her inadequate breast down his throat.  "I mean, I don't think so."  She looks at you with those unnerving brown eyes.  "Is it me?  Could he be somehow…I don't know…disliking my milk or something?"

          "I'm not sure.  What does Michael say about it?"

          "I tried to talk to him about it, but…well, he wouldn't really know.  And he's been so preoccupied with the proposal he's working on."

          Proposal.  Must be important.  You file that away for later.

          "Besides," Claire says softly, like she's just now remembered that the rest of the house is asleep, "he thinks everything's fine with my breasts as long as they look and feel good to him."

          "Oh, I see."  You nod your head; you refuse to egg on badmouthing of Michael.  "Could your milk ducts be clogged or something?  I've read that that can happen with…smaller breasts."

          Claire smiles bashfully.  "Oh.  Well, I mean, how could I tell?"  She looks down at the baby falling asleep between her paltry offerings.  "I wonder if I should have Michael check or—"

          "No need.  Here."  You're up before you know it, fatigue of many types sending you into helpful nanny mode before you can stop yourself.  Claire's right breast is already exposed; it takes only a gentle pull on her robe to bare the other.  You've watched her feed before, from an acceptable distance.  You've never seen her like this, this close.  Her breasts are quite nice, though you refuse to think too hard on that.  "I've heard that milk blisters can turn a nursing baby off—something about the feel of the nipple being…offensive to the baby," you lie.  "I can take a look, if you want."

          "Well…um." 

          You touch her, probably more gently than your husband touched her, when she blew everything out of proportion.  "I don't feel any abnormalities, but…oh.  What's this?"

          Claire goes pale.  "What?  Is it…a lump?"

          "I don't think so.  Wait."  You take your—the—baby out of her arms and place him back in the crib so he can get the sleep she was interrupting.  You go back to where Claire sits looking dumbfounded and inept, her robe open, and touch her left nipple.  "I think this may be a clogged milk duct."  You cup her breast, using your thumb to stroke the nipple to attention.  You hear Claire's sharp intake of breath, you see her claw at the chair's arm.  You can barely hold back a smile. "Does it feel like your milk is backed up?"

          "No, but.  My God, is this why Joey's not nursing?  Is there something wrong with me?"

          Your heart races at the sound of Claire's distress; you remain the picture of deferential support but inside you're high fiving yourself.  You'll make your chocolate soufflé for dessert tonight.  You'll even let her help.

          Claire swallows and looks down at her breast in your hands.  "Do you feel anything?"

          "Here."  You take her hand and press it against where you felt the phantom clogged duct.  "This can happen when babies don't nurse enough," you say emphatically, whether it's true or not.  "See for yourself."  You sit back and watch as Claire gives herself an impromptu breast exam.  She lifts her arm and looks down, and it's all you can do to keep from sliding her robe completely off.

          "I just…I don't feel anything," she wines.

          "This used to happen to my former employee from time to time," you lie.  "Massaging helps relieve blockages.  I'll bring you a warm compress."  You go to the bathroom to run warm water on a washcloth, and take your time returning to the nursey.  You close the door.

          Claire, now holding her robe closed, looks frustrated.  "I just…I still don't feel what you're feeling, Peyton.  I had blocked ducts with Emma, and I could always feel them before."

          "Of course you know best."  You hand her the compress and sit down on the floor in front of her.  "I wouldn't presume to know more than you.  You've had two children and I—well, all I know is what I've learned and heard from other nannies and what I've read.  I'm just trying to help.  I only want what's best for you…and for Joey."

          That gets her.  Claire sighs and reopens her robe.  "Where?" she whispers, embarrassed.  You don't answer, just lean forward and touch a place on her lower left breast where you pretended you felt a hard swelling.  She presses your hand against her breast.  "There?"

          "Yes, there."

          Claire looks down at your hands gently squeezing her breast and shakes her head.  "I still don't—"

          "Let me."  You take over, leaning closer to squeeze her breast, hard enough to dislodge a plug if she actually had one, but not so hard that Claire's nipples don't stiffen in front of you.  She gasps and grabs at your wrist but doesn't stop you.  Her nipples are huge, almost as huge as yours are after you nurse Joey in the wee hours of the morning.

          "What are…oh."  Claire's skin reddens down into her robe.  Her eyes close.

          "Just relax," you say softly, with the voice you use to soothe Emma into a nap, the voice you used on Victor to rouse his interest.  Sometimes you forget that but for this woman in your hands you'd still have a life, a husband, a 9 month old son.  Sometimes Claire smiles at you with her head cocked, so trusting, so open, and you feel pity instead of rage.  She's so stupid…how can you hate her for that?

          "Is that better?" you whisper as you thumb her nipple.  She actually groans and slides closer to the edge of the chair.  "Shh, don't wake the baby."

          "We shouldn't do this," she says, but then she licks her lips.

          You touch her other breast, caress it nearly has roughly as the first.  "Do what?" you whisper.  There's ice in your voice and your eyes, but she's too stupid to notice anything but supple pressure on her tender skin.  She closes her eyes and breathes deeply.  You wonder if this is how she looked as your husband examined her.

          "Wait," she says after a long time, so long that you know she's into it.  Of course she is.  She's begging for it.  Michael must be so tired of her by now.  She shakes her head and licks her lips at the same time, but she doesn't pull away.  You caress her belly as well, and then she moans loudly.

          "Quiet, Claire."

          "What are you doing to me?" she yelps when she can finally meet your eye.

          You smile and tell her the truth for the first time since you've known her.  "Giving you what you need."  Claire stares open-mouthed at you.

          "I don't…oh…can't…Michael."

          "Michael would want you to do what's best for your baby."  You reach up to run a hand through her messy hair.  "And…he doesn't need to know."  Claire's eyes are glassy and her hips are already starting to move.  You can barely hold back a smile as you lean down.  "Sometimes…when manual pressure fails…it helps to nurse."  The moment you touch just the tip of your lips to her nipple, Claire nearly jumps out of the chair.  "I'm trying to help you," you say calmly, because Claire frequently needs to be calmed, managed.  You know Michael feels the same way.  "I want to help you feel better, Claire."  You curl your tongue around the areola.  The somewhat sweet taste of her skin is unexpected.  The sudden urge to taste more of her is also unexpected.

          "Peyton, please," Claire groans as she pulls her robe wider apart.  An invitation, of course.  You place gentle kisses all over her breasts, but you refuse to give her what she wants until she asks for it.

          "Please, what?"  You punctuate your intention with quick licks to the nipple.  Claire looks like she might cry, so you do it again, and to the other, all while you continue kneading her chest.  "What is it that you need, Claire?"  She's breathing fast now, and as she sinks down in the chair to get closer to you, she lets her legs fall apart, opening her robe all the way.  You continue staring her in the eye but you still can tell what she wants to you know, that she's not wearing underwear.  You shake your head at her.  "Oh, Claire.  How will that cure your milk duct problem?"

          "You're driving me crazy."

          "Yes.  You're welcome."  You pull her flush against you.  This forces her crotch against your body.  Even through your clothes you can feel that she's hot there, that she's wet there.  You wonder if she and Michael had made love earlier, if she'd tricked him into laying on top of her and pounding into her, tricked him like she tricked Victor.  You can feel the anger start to boil up again, but this is not time for that.  So you pull her close and suck her nipple into your mouth.  Claire cries out, then stuffs her hand into her mouth.  "Yes, that makes it better, doesn't it?" you coo, lying to her because she wants to be lied to.  You get her good and wet with your saliva and then suck slow and hard as you press yourself against her.  Her hips pulse a little, her head falls back exposing her neck.  You imagine Victor sucking on one side, Michael on the other.  You bite her.

          "Oh, yes," she hisses.  You see her slide one hand down into her lap.  The other hand clutches the chair in a death grip.  Oh, so she won't go there.  She thinks you won't let her go there, but as always, she's wrong.

          "You want to touch me, don't you?" you mouth, but you know she can understand.  "Want to see?"  You pull apart your own robe, brandish your tits at her.  She licks her lips and whimpers.  "Yes…see what another woman looks like," you whisper, biting back what you really want to say… _a real woman_.  You hold your breasts, tease hers with them.  Claire reaches out to touch, and then you slide down out of the way to gobble her milk-filled breast into your mouth.

          "Shit…shit."  She arches into your mouth and slides her hand over her untrimmed mons pubis.  It surprises you how much you want to see her fingers disappear in all that hair.  You suck harder, alternating between light flicks and urgent swipes of your tongue around her sensitive nipples.  She pants, her eyes close, and then you smell her.  You look down to catch her slick fingers working fast.  You stop nursing her, think about sucking on those fingers of hers instead, and then you feel your own juices dampening your inner thigh.

          "No," you snap at yourself, "Not me, too.  Not like Victor," you say to yourself, not that she's aware enough of anything but her hand in her vulva and your mouth on her breasts.  You shake yourself back into where you are, lift her breast into your mouth, press your hand against hers between her legs, and suck as hard as you can.  As Claire lets go a garbled cry, you wince as warm liquid squirts against the roof of your mouth.  You squeeze and suck her through her climax, all the while staring daggers up at her grimacing face.  Ugly when she comes, just like you always thought.

          She lays there splayed open and damp all over while you both catch your breaths.  When you can, you stand up, tie your robe, and go check on the baby.  Not surprisingly, Joey slept right through all Claire's annoying vocalizations.  Your nourishment in his belly is all he ever really needed.

          "Peyton," Claire whispers.

          "Night," you mumble, ignoring her hand reaching out for you, and quickly go back to your room, leaving her to deal with anyone else in the house she may have woken up.

          You make the shower as hot as it will go.  Claire's stench is all over you.  At first you stand there, intent on ignoring the ache.  When you can no longer stomach it, you open your mouth to get a little water in and then spit Claire's milk into the tub.  You repeat it several times, but that still doesn't diminish the throbbing in your sex.  You curse as you lean against the wall with one hand while the other attends to the wetness between your legs.  Squeezing your eyes shut and letting the hot water hit you directly in the face can't erase the image of Claire, open, panting, trying to hold back her excitement for…you.  You come saying Claire's name, and then you slap your own face.

          Claire has a late start the next day.  If not for you the Bartels would surely go hungry most mornings.  You make the coffee extra strong, just the way Michael likes it.  You make Emma's breakfast and get her sorted for school before Claire even can be bothered to make her way downstairs.  You fix her a plate and settle yourself with your second cup when she slinks into the kitchen, looking hungover.  You want to roll your eyes; her tendency to overreact is what got you here, after all.

          "Morning," she says, not meeting your eyes, as she grabs her favorite coffee mug.  You give her your best, brightest, fakest greeting while under the table you press a fork into your palm.

          "I've got to get Emma to the bus, but after…"  Finally Claire looks at you.  Her eyes are a little red, but she has the faintest smile on her face.  "I think we should talk."

          You take a large gulp of coffee.  "Sure, Claire!  About what?"

          Claire turns red and clutches her robe.  "You know what, Peyton.  About…last night," she whispers.

          You stand up to pour her some coffee that you know she'll hate.  Weak minds prefer weak coffee.  "What _about_ last night?"

          Claire smiles embarrassedly and bites her bottom lip.  You want to bite it, too, to make it bleed.  "About what happened…when we…you know."

          You turn to Claire, give her your best Peyton.  God help her when she finally meets Mrs. Mott.  "I don't know what you mean.  I don't remember anything out of the ordinary happening last night, do you?"

          Claire looks like she might fall over.  "But…are you kidding?"

          "I think you're tired, Claire.  Why don't you eat your breakfast and I'll take Emma to the bus.  Go on, sit down.  You need your rest, you look exhausted.  I'll take care of Emma…I'll take care of everything."  You pat her on the shoulder and rush off to get Emma to her bus.

          Later that day, when Claire tries to bring it up again, you tell her to take a nap while you start dinner.  She stares at her hands for a long time, then nods and leaves the room, laying a hand on your shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze, as she goes.

          You bite back a rush of…something…and start chopping onions.

 

© 2018 KTA


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